This was a call to war. And the war ignited into full regalia when my guardian angels pulled the plug on my body on Halloween 2018 while I was in a second-opinion consult with a Mayo Clinic gynecologic oncologist. As pale as white paper, and barely able to breath, and worse — unable to control myself, I hurled and splattered volumes of gastrointestinal debris all over her office. Rushed to the ER, the final report read: severe anemia, hemorrhage gostrointestinal upper, malignant neoplasm of endocervix (HCC), and dyspnea — NOS (labored breathing).
I wonder how many times I’ve been called a bitch? Was I a bitch because I have strapped “them” on and wrestled the proverbial bulls? Did I wear the title because I stood for my beliefs? Is it bitchy because I’m the boss and confident with decision making? I don’t know. However, I suspect that because I have refused (or been unable) to act subservient or lesser-than, that the bitch word has likely been attached to certain conversations about me.
Also seen in SLO New Times & Santa Maria Sun On an August afternoon 36 years ago, my world flipped upside down. I was 27 years old, mother to a 3-year-old and an 18-month-old. My college career was on hold while my husband considered a graduate degree. But that wasn’t going to happen because on this one August day a deadly accident terminated our dreams. This accident killed my husband and I stood in the desert wind unsure how I would move forward […]